Pychosomatic
by Radioheaded
Summary: Who's the one with the conversion disorder?
1. Chapter 1

It's not an especially stressful day, for once. A light patient load, followed by easy paperwork. House has no patients, either, so he's not being forced to talk the other man out of his latest scheme. The quiet is peaceful, enhanced by the gold glow of the setting sun.

The light bathes him; for no real reason he gets up from his desk and opens the door to his balcony, closes his eyes and tilts his head up to feel the warmth on his face. He lets out a sound, a cross between a sigh and a purr and turns back toward his office. It's time to go.

"You should stay out here longer," a voice calls from behind. "A tan will make you look thinner."

Now he does sigh; a long, drawn out noise that signals the acquiescence of the inevitable.

"Why are you here, House?"

"Well, I do work here, you know."

There's a tinge behind Wilson's eyes; it's painful but short, like a burst of lightning through his veins, there and gone in a second, leaving singed nerves behind.

"You know. The usual. Board meetings, paperwork, charting. All that."

"House…" A throb begins behind his eyes, timed to the beating of his heart. He listens as House details the woes of his motorcycle, thus needing a ride home.

"Fine. Let's go." His whole head is pounding now, throbbing like the beat of a frenetic drum. He stops in his office to gather a few things and dry-swallows four aspirin; he doesn't want this to get any worse on the way home.

They fall into step in the hallway, taptaptapthump, moving together in one lopsided rhythm. House watches Wilson, blatantly stares. Wilson, as he always does, ignores this, keeps going, and tries not to break the momentum.

But ignoring House is like watching a stopped sink overflow; he can either pull the plug, listen to whatever genius comment House is about to share, or wait and have it pour out all over him, in an uncontrollable torrent.

"Yes, House?"

"Quiet, today, Wilson?"

"Tired. Headache."

"Stressed over anything in particular?"

"Just life, House. Life."

"Antidepressants letting you down?

"Yeah, I'm going home to slit my wrists, then have a nice hot bath. Not sure what order, though."

"Want a stronger dose, then? I could share."

"Sure. I've got some coke in my dash. Let's go to town." Wilson tries not to roll his eyes, glaring instead. He unlocks the car, gets in and watches House rearrange his limbs awkwardly. There's a sort of pleasure for Wilson in this moment, seeing House grimace, try to cover up a vulnerability he fiercely denies exists.

Wilson's silence is punctuated by House's breathing; the in and out is deep, evenly measured. He doesn't have a care in the world, it seems. Wilson stops for the left turn, reclines a little and lets his right arm hit the rest….which House has already taken.

House shoves Wilson's arm out of the way, muttering that arm rests are for guests only. Wilson says nothing, rubs his forehead, where the pounding moves from a dull ache into a sharp pound. Light hits his eyes and he squints, blocks the sun with his hand and pulls into an empty spot by Wilson's apartment.

House leans to the left, brings a hand under his right leg and pushes with his left to get out. For a moment, he's braced against Wilson, using his weight as an anchor. Then he's out of the car, muttering a goodbye. Wilson hears it but can't reply; his head is screaming, splitting at the seams. His hands grip his hair, then move to his ears. There's got to be blood, this pain is too real, too much—no? Nose—dry, mouth—dry, all the saliva absorbed back, none produced.

The pain begins to abate; Wilson lowers the visor and checks his eyes. Clear. No inflammation, no burst veins. He closes his eyes, breathes in as deep as he can and feels it shudder through him. His hands are on the wheel now, curling around the leather, holding on tight. He tries to fight back, push the pain out through his hands, through his tense muscles but it rebounds in him, plays tag with his internal organs.

Then it's gone

It leaves Wilson with no answers but the relief in and of itself pushes all other thoughts away, and he wonders when the feeling of nothing at all became the best in the world.

A few more breathes and he pulls the car out of park, moves into drive and gets to the hotel in one piece.

When he steps out of the car he realizes he's shaking, damp in the dip of his back and on the back of his neck. He vibrates against the still world. With his hands stuffed in his suit jacket pockets, he urges the elevator to go faster. His reflection seems to mock him, or at least his appearance. Bags lay under his eyes, pointing out already pale skin.

The elevator stops. He excuses himself as he edges around two loud children and their apathetic parents. He leans on the door after he enters the room, breathing heavy. God, he's tired.

He sits, lays down on the bed and lets himself drift. Maybe he can figure out why he felt so bad. Something he ate? No, only had coffee this morning and a bagel for lunch. Ok, so when did it start? In his office, when he was getting ready to leave.

No, before that. He was outside, on the balcony. The sun felt good—the headache came after, after. After House had made—after House.

Like a projector, Wilson's mind cues up where his headache became most intense. Walking with House, driving with House. House's pressure on his body. House's weight.

House.

But, no. That's impossible. Wilson's slowing mind rationalizes the coincidence away, begins to let go. His limbs start to feel heavy so he brings them close to his chest, turns onto his side and thinks once more of House before his mind takes over, transitioning him from reality into dreams.


	2. Chapter 2

It's not pain that wakes him, or a loud noise, or…anything, really. But all the same, his eyes open to the dark quiet of an unknown hour. The darkness, the universal receiver, presses in against him, floods his eyes so he closes them, interrupts the calm by turning over to his left side before sighing, willing for sleep to return. But now he's uncomfortable; the heat he generated has absorbed into the sheets and it surrounds him, wraps him in a cocoon of warmth and he begins to sweat.

He sweeps an arm across the other side of the bed; good, cold cotton greets him and he rolls over, breathes out and feels soothed by the cool on his skin. But now his position is uncomfortable; he's putting too much pressure on his leg. When he turns over, onto his stomach, his spine tightens, issues a dull warning and so he moves again, onto his back, and looks up at the ceiling.

He should be asleep; his mix of whiskey and pills were enough to send anyone into catatonia. And yet his mind clears itself, becomes sharp. Alert.

There's always an explanation, though. Something must be bothering him; there must be some question his unconscious is asking, something that needs to be answered. But he doesn't have a case, hasn't seen anything particularly enigmatic lately—not that he knows of. God, he hates being up in the middle of the night. He gets that itchy, restless feeling that encompasses every fiber of his being, that desperate need to escape himself, to get away from his body. To be something bigger, something important.

Before his leg, insomnia wasn't so bad. He used to take midnight runs, slipping out of the house with a quiet excitement, a feeling of solitude that was somehow joyful. Now, he lies as still as he can so his body won't betray him; so that maybe the pain won't find him.

At some point he falls asleep; he knows it because he's at his desk, leaning on his hands, staring at the whiteboard. There's something written, and it could make sense, but parts are missing, leaving behind fragments that he can't understand.

You—reason—let—but—long.

Won't—be—stays—you.

It's a radio with bad reception; a song that he used to know but can only recall in pieces.

---------

Dawn presses through Wilson's eyelids; he must have forgotten to shut the blinds, because the hot pinkorange of the day greets him, gets him up for something he hasn't watched in years. He gets up, goes to the window and presses his hand to it, wanting to touch the color. The sun comes up and he stays there, interrupted only by the high-pitched chirping of his alarm.

Then the sky settles, turns pale and he leaves the window. He stretches, spreads his arms, rises high on his toes and writhes as his muscles lengthen and contract. Sleep has left him in a good mood; he showers quickly and drives to work, singing along with the radio.

-------------

House wakes up to a muscle cramp in his leg a few hours before his alarm is supposed to go off. The Vicodin that sits on his bedside table is popped open and he swallows a few too many of slim white pills. With half-asleep fingers he massages the leg, keeps his mind quiet and focuses only on time; twenty minutes and drug will hit his bloodstream. Twenty minutes to hold on.

When his mouth goes dry and he feels the drowsy relaxation pooling in his limbs, he sits up, tests moving the leg. When it doesn't fight back, he reaches for his cane and goes to the bathroom. He showers, lingering under the steady massage of the hot spray.

He drives to work on his bike; the spring air has a sharp chill to it that's invigorating. As if the cold knows it's transitory; that it will be leaving soon. The dew curls around House's legs though, embedding itself deep through tissue and into bone. Though he's saturated with pain blockers, the leg aches just the same.

But speeding through the early morning air does him good; he arrives at work almost happy, walks through the dim empty halls with a small smile on his face. He's got no real work to do so he breezes through his office toward the balcony, where the view begins to bathe in the pale light of morning.

He leans on the railing, looking down on everything, when he hears something nearby. Someone clearing their throat—no, there it is again—a cough, coming from Wilson's office. The other man was there, sitting at his desk doing some sort of paperwork. He hadn't noticed House yet. The words forming in House's mind are almost released, almost shouted to the other man, but then Wilson pauses, cups his cheek in his hand and sort of drifts off, stares at the desk in front of him.

House watches, silently, until his gaze is caught. Wilson looks up, stares at him an winces, almost imperceptibly.

House climbs over the partition of the balcony; he's at Wilson's door in the next second, trying to open the door, but it's locked. Wilson looks at him and for a second House thinks the door won't be opened; thinks that he'll be denied, sent back through his own office. But Wilson stands up, slides the door open and squints at him.

"You're here early." House keeps his tone light as he sidesteps Wilson to get to the couch. He sits heavily, arms and legs splayed, pushes back into the leather before scrunching down. Wilson sits at his desk, moves his paperwork to its appropriate file and nods in agreement.

"Couldn't sleep?"

"Slept fine. Fell asleep early because I had a headache. Woke up early." Wilson rubs his temples, frowns and looks at House.

"You?"

"Woke up early."

Neither speaks for a moment; the silence is awkward, punctuated by the muffled taptaptap of Wilson's foot on the floor.

"So," House breaks the silence first. "Why are you still living in a hotel?"

Wilson's hand goes to the bridge of his nose.

"I mean, it's a waste of money, one, and it's honestly not that hard to find an apartment."

"House," Wilson warns, squeezing his eyes shut. "I'm not your latest puzzle; get a case, get a hooker, get anything. Leave my life out of it."

"Not much of a life, though, is it? You don't have a girlfriend, no friends beside me, really; everyone you treat will either die or really never want to see you again. It's like you don't exist."

"God, House." Wilson's hands creep toward his forehead; his skin is flushed, beaded with sweat.

"Can't take the truth?" House pushes off the couch.

"Just get out, House."

"Wilso—"

"Out!" Wilson's shout reverberates through the room, follows House as he takes the few steps toward the door. As it closes behind him, he smiles.


	3. Chapter 3

House doesn't come back all day. Wilson freezes every time there's a knock at the door, but each time it's a patient, come to hear good or bad news that Wilson delivers on autopilot. His words are inflected correctly, with just the right amount of sympathy or happiness, depending on the diagnosis; but his mind isn't there. He deconstructs his encounter with House, analyzes it from every angle, tries to remember anything that will help him figure out the other man's next move. Because there will be one; there always is. If he can get ready for it, if he can figure it out before House's actions surround him like a hunter circling his pray, he might not be so blindsided.

Might.

But for now he watches people bring shaking hands to their pale faces, or congratulates those who have managed to recover a semblance of health. House is like that, he realizes. Like a cancer. Even when times are good, there's always a threat, always a chance of relapse.

He tries to shake the thoughts away, tries to focus on Frasier, Alicia and her stage three ovarian cancer, but her words slide around and past him too quickly. He can't focus. But he opens her file, reads the results and finds that they're pleasant. When she leaves, he's glad; he can get back to his musings in peace. But the more he thinks about House and everything that was said, the angrier he gets. He's sitting at his desk, hands curled into balls with the need to get this i feeling /i out of his body, when he decides to go see House.

His steps are fast, a harsh clackclackclack against the floor. He doesn't knock, just leans his weight into opening the door; he bursts into the room, barbed words ready.

"Listen, House," But the sharp little syllables have nowhere to go; they have no target into which they can delve.

The room is empty.

The man's absence is almost as frustrating as his presence. Wilson leaves he room, walks down the halls while looking at his feet to avoid eye contact or irritation. He knows if he's stopped he'll take what House did on whomever the unlucky person happens to be; he doesn't want that. He wants his anger to be directed toward the right person, to be unleashed completely on the man most deserving.

He makes it to the parking lot and sees that House's motorcycle is gone. Fine. His keys are in his pocket; he'll just have to go to House's apartment.

The ride is quick; his music is loud and he drives too fast, but he can't contain himself. When he spots the motorcycle, a quiet 'yes' is forced through clenched teeth; he's excited now, though not quite sure why.

He's inside in five steps, knocking at the door a second later. He hears the imbalanced shuffle of House's gait and holds his breath. The door is opened; House greets him with a little smirk, a quirked eyebrow and lip and says yes expectantly, as if Wilson needs a reason to be there to get inside.

Something happens then that Wilson doesn't quite understand. House's face, his expression, his attitude…it i does /i something to him. There's heat behind his eyes, he makes a strangled sort of cry before everything goes white.

When he comes to, House is underneath him with his hands covering his face. Wilson pins him down; his hand is lifted, as if to strike, but there's already blood covering the knuckles. He realizes what's happening and throws himself off the other man, pushes himself away and asks what the fuck just happened.

House sits up, pushes the back of his hand against his mouth and examines the amount of blood that comes off.

"What happened is I opened the door and you jumped me. Wanna tell me why?"

Wilson doesn't answer at first, lets the silence drag on before he wipes at his eyes, cups his hand over his face and says he doesn't know.

"You—" He begins, carefully choosing his words, "You're trying to fuck with me."

"Yeah, it's something new and different I'm trying." House looks at Wilson, stares as blood dribbles down his chin from the split in his lip.

"No. This is different. You're trying to make me feel worthless. Oh—" Wilson's body pulses in time with his heart, sending waves of pain in every direction.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I just—headache, hurts." He can't speak anymore, can't function. He pushes back into the wall, squeezes his eyes shut, curls into himself and tries to breathe.

"When did it start?" House's voice gets closer.

"Yesterday, on the way home."

"Not before that?"

"I—maybe, on the deck. It's just a migraine or something, intensified by the sunlight." It makes sense; Wilson begins to believe his own justification.

"So why can't you open your eyes now?" Wilson hears House step back, sits on the couch that relaxes under his weight. "Why does it look like someone's stabbing a voodoo doll with your name on it ever time I come around?"

Wilson doesn't answer, but starts aligning the facts in his head. It's true.

"Now who's the one with the conversion disorder, Wilson?" There's something in House's voice, a tone of…satisfaction? It sounds as if the other man is smiling, happy that Wilson is in pain.

"Think about it, Wilson. You get off on being needed, on being wanted. You try to take care of everyone else and you end up living in a hotel."

"You like this, huh?" Wilson slides his hands against the wall, braces himself and begins to stand up. "I'm the latest mystery, the latest puzzle." House just looks at him, waits for him to continue.

"Or is it that I'm no better than you? You think I play put-upon for fun? My life is consumed by yours—by you! You're saying that I'm somehow addicted to it, like being your friend, your protector gives any kind of satisfaction? And that now my body is punishing me for it?"

House still doesn't answer.

"Will you say something? How could I possibly enjoy the effect you have on everything? I've been fired, had my life taken away, been threatened by the police, all for you—all for you. And what do I have to show for it?"

"A large hotel bill?" House's tone is light, flippant. He's satisfied with the mystery he's unraveled; the fallout after the discovery means nothing to him.

Wilson isn't sure what to do; something builds inside of him, that same anger that needs an exit. He's across the room in a second; House's collar is in his hands and he's shaking the other man, shaking as hard as he can when he feels arms wrap around him. He's thrown; doesn't know what's going on so he fights it, flings his limbs out to escape but his balance is thrown off and he slides forward on the couch on top of House.

In the moments that follow, he isn't sure what exactly happens, but all he knows is the feel of a mouth on his, the touch of hands moving down his body.


End file.
